


Star-crossed.

by songofvelius



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Minor Pepper Potts/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Minor Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Multi, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 04:31:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofvelius/pseuds/songofvelius
Summary: He had accepted that death so quickly, accepted that his world will be sepia, earth and the occasional blue all over again with no same shade of vivid red to grace the canvases he paints in ridiculous pining.Sometimes it takes a little more than apologies to make good of what could and should be, but with help and introspection, Steve strives to do better for and with Tony.





	Star-crossed.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is just unrepentant Tony-appreciation from Steve's perspective; it's star-crossed from the circumstances they're thrust into; a little melancholic considering Endgame, and above all, it will be filled with relentless yearning.
> 
> On a less poetic note, it is a straight up adrenaline rush fix-it with major changes even to some universal elements that the narrative has dictated, and the ending is altered without subscribing to time manipulation in the end. While I appreciate the fics that are so well-thought in that regard, I wanted to focus on a fix-it that depends more on fleshed out character dynamics that are more than the scraps the Russos have given us. 
> 
> Thus, everything comes at additional introspection in the gaps between Steve’s words that he doesn’t express in the encounters with Tony [but should]: it touches on trauma in relation to loss, expectation and how prior chronic illnesses intertwine with the way Steve navigates the world [flawed and human]. It’ll go chronologically, so some memory of Endgame will help you navigate through the scenes—or you can just enjoy Steve’s pining that will eventually bear fruit.

Check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/songofvelius)!

* * *

  **Star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

thwarted or opposed by the stars; ill-fated: **star-crossed lovers.**

* * *

   
The gaps between words and the void where he used to entrust his life to me; all I want to do is deserve him again in whatever capacity.

 

* * *

  
It was never going to be easy, and Steve doesn’t even know where to start.

  
“ _Liar._ ”

  
Tony Stark had rasped that with borrowed breath, lungs still recovering from the excavation into stars and beyond where everyone thought him dead. Eyes simmering with all the anger and hurt that was never given closure, he heaves, waits, _dares_ for excuses that could explain this— the cold gaps between them where there used to be so much unbridled potential, and so many almost’s.

  
Steve felt his heart sink. Apologies can be so underwhelming. Maybe in time, the white noises of the world will no longer demand so much from either Avenger, and Steve could find the words to articulate the depth of his personal failure, the tangibility of regret that colours his evenings, "Tony, I…”

  
"Not a word  _more_ , Rogers. Here, take this—" Tony tugs at his arc reactor in a harsh motion without blinking, slots it into Steve’s palm with finality. “And when he finds you, you  _run._ ’’

_  
Like you always do._

  
Forward, forward and forward because that’s what soldiers do; so much so that he hasn’t dwelled enough on the mistake of leaving Tony in the harsh Siberian cold that doomed something before it ever began—just as he denies himself room to think about the ones left in a distant past he relives through history books and poignant memory, those left in the dissipated mess of bone and ash he can’t even gather up to bury. He whiplashes between loss and the idea of moving on so much that the lines have long since blurred, and by now, Steve can no longer pretend that the phantom pains of war and regret colour do not colour his present.

  
Their eyes meet, and perhaps some part of them grieved for all that could’ve been before Tony collapses into the ground with a loud thud. Rhodey heaves a sigh when he supports the unconscious form of his best friend, murmuring something about ‘rom-com tragedy’, ‘poetic cinema’ and ‘dramatic dumbass’.

  
The arc reactor beamed like a dimming star in Steve’s palm, light giving away at the cracks—he almost wishes with a fatigued numbness that he didn't understand the symbolism.

* * *

 

"You don't always have to wait for permission."

  
Pepper is kind but firm as she says this, and it just occurs to Steve how he’s been staring through the windows of the medical ward long enough to warrant a lecture or two. He stops elbowing the door frame like a bouncer on the lookout, having the grace to be sheepish as he clears his throat. "Sorry."

  
There’s silence then save for quiet beep of the heart monitor that soothes him more than words can say, and he grips onto the railing that separates him from the slumbering figure, because that’s all he allows himself. Tony looks troubled in sleep, still, but breathes easier every time Pepper caresses his hair in reassurance, as if he knows that he’s being made an unquestionable priority under her watchful gaze.

  
That little snippet of his peace helps Steve breathe again. “… He’s alive.’’

  
He says that so softly against all the current wrongs in the world, bewildered and grateful in a way he never dared convey even in the playfulness of their past interactions. The day Coulson died, Tony had clenched his jaw and clarified that no one, _none of them_ were soldiers, expendable like toys ready to be tossed once their time was up. And still he tried in the best of his capacity, which showed in the way his face was marred by prices paid in full, a bleeding heart that fights as fiercely as it feels in the face of adversity.

  
And the fact that Steve had asked after _coordinates_ instead of _Tony_ and _us_ because he wasn’t ready to breach the topic—twists his insides so intensely that he has to speak to take attention away from it. ‘’I don’t know how I can make it right again, Pepper; if I ever will.”

There's room for understanding in Pepper's gaze when she notices this; after all, they have both mourned in the hallways that used to hold so much manic energy and life, two open wounds coinciding in yearning for someone that was beyond their reach. He makes sure not to interrupt her routinely visits to the garage just before she sets off to mend the world’s chaos in her business regalia and pinned-up-hair, and she doesn’t comment on the way he tries to commit every coffee stained corner and spark-burnt-mark to memory through charcoaled drawings.

  
He had accepted that death so quickly, accepted that his world will be sepia, earth and the occasional blue all over again with no same shade of vivid red to grace the canvases he paints in ridiculous pining.

  
“He’s alive for now, Steve.” Now, Pepper’s voice had been humourless as it was back then as she gave another stroke to tousled brown hair. ‘’That may not last; nothing does.” There’s a recognizable fatigue to her gaze when she looks at him, an unspoken little reminder to both of them, and somewhere in Pepper's pensiveness he knows she was the most prepared out of all of them. He’s grateful enough that it almost outweighs the enormity of his guilt-- she was there in all the ways he aches to be able to do, and it’s high time he snapped out of _want to’s_ and just _did_.

  
For now.

  
It should terrify him, but he swallows and hyper-fixates on the silent beep of the heart monitor all over again, latching onto any existing proof of a pulse that makes the ashen present a little more liveable.

  
For now, Tony was just Tony, not some missed opportunity.

* * *

 

He makes sure to be there when Tony was up this time.

  
“... What’re you doing here.” His mutter had been croaked but annoyed nonetheless when he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Steve had been helping Pepper with food preparations under her instructions, shirt pulled up to his elbows when he dares an awkward little wave.

  
“Stepping up. Do you want some starfruit juice?” He’s well aware that he’s forcing some sense of normalcy that hasn’t been earned, but presses on for now while they figure that part out, a bit of a pause before he supplies, “It’s good for cardiovascular health.”

  
“You’re making… star fruit juice.” Some incredulity there because of course Steve Rogers has the audacity to stand there, making starfruit juice and talking about _cardiovascular_ health—And in another lifetime Tony might’ve allowed himself to snort at the pun in reference to the earlier scene with the arc reactor; but he catches himself just before so, veins on neck bulging and protests ready on the tip of his tongue.

  
“Listen, star-spangled scammer, I don’t think you heard me right when I said I _needed_ you.” The pause is for emphasis that Steve doesn’t flinch from, takes it in stride with quiet eyes when Tony continues, “Not just past tense, _work_ sense, so acting like you can waltz right in here and play _house husband_ is—”

  
“Not the worst thing that can happen,” Pepper’s finishes for him. She lets Tony decide on whether there were important additions, continues when she’s sure. “I’m a working woman with a conglomerate to run, and since you’re bedridden, there’s no sense in rejecting help.”

  
“Pep—“

  
“Yes?” She’s quirking a humored brow that Tony obviously struggles to stay mad even when his eyes are seized by love, love, and love; so much love that Steve wasn’t sure just what he was envying.

  
“Tony.” Rich enough in its simplicity to fill the room these few decades, it seems. The man was still fighting his exasperation even as Steve approaches, grousing about the tubes stuck inconveniently into his skin. “I’ve been asphyxiated enough in the void beyond space to be provoked into breathlessness so soon, so write another letter and leave it with Rhodey, he’ll know what to do.’’

  
“One chance and I’ll be out of your hair for good. Please.’’

  
That consideration went on in minutes that Steve wasn’t sure would be in his favour until Tony took a good hard look at him and bundles into his blankets a little more.

  
“…The fact that you’re not bothering with the whole ‘stoic enough to unite the south’ fiasco is points scored, I suppose. But I don’t know what else there is to communicate, we’ve said our final pieces clearly enough.”

  
His words tended to run faster than the end of his patience with people around him, Steve finds.

  
“Era-specific values,” he manages, gentler than he has ever allowed himself or dared to be, and _has_ to be now—there can only be so many near-deaths. “I know this isn’t going to right itself on its own. But I want to do this with you if you let me; I want to deserve you again.”

* * *

 

They return with an empty gauntlet and even emptier expressions; the footsteps had been too measured to be celebratory, like an impending death notification that will change the way a loved one anticipates every knock to their doorstep. When the news is delivered with grave finality, the laugh that comes from his Tony’s parched throat is the most broken sound Steve has heard him make, “It’s over then. We really _are_ the post-mortem team.”

  
Tony says he’s done, that he’s done his damnedest to prevent all of this and even then, it didn’t amount to anything near enough. Steve stays with him until the last of that despair can find some semblance on solace, if at all.

* * *

  
Domesticity isn’t something he’s mulled over beyond sepia-tinged nostalgia, so dining with Tony and Pepper whenever he can is a modest blessing he’ll take. Every now and then he notices just like everyone else: the empty seats of company that could’ve been here, but he is adamant not to bring up anything mission-related out of consideration—

  
“Your cheek’s still bruised; must have been one hell of a heavy hit.”

  
Steve straightens as Tony wags a fork at him across the dinner table, a touch scolding in the way he huffs. “Don’t tell me you rushed to this dinner right after an “errand”, I told you to take it easy—are you still suited up under that jacket?”

  
“It’s nothing that won’t go away on its own. And the suit is for protection.”

  
“Lousy excuse. Pep, look at this Clark Kent disaster.”

  
“It’s not a bad sight.’’ She quips this without half, filling her wine glass with just one hand while her eyes remained on a holo-screen as it skims over reports on Stark Industries’ involvement with the orphan relocation schemes. “Just say you’re concerned like any mature adult with a crush. How about some peaches, Steve? You can cut them up until Natasha and the others make it after ‘traffic’ in a bit, she and I have work to discuss.”

  
“You’re spoiling him—with domination—but it’s still spoiling! And who said anything about crushes?”

 

* * *

 

“See. I can’t, in my good conscience as an ex-colleague watch you walk into the crossfire of war and beyond in something flimsy enough to bruise you all over, super soldier regeneration or not—”

  
Tony’s rambles on in the midst of animated gestures, bold design choices and plans to reinforce fabric structures all scribbled onto holographic surfaces; Steve suppresses a warm smile, zipping down his jacket helpfully, “You can’t.”

  
“Exactly! Let nobody question how I’m a good host. So, tell me about the kind of things you’re on patrol for. Any washed up villains taking advantage of the quiet economy, interesting clues—” He does that little thing where there’s a slowed bounce to his step as his mind races, like he’s not still hungering for any little lead that can spark his mind and eyes afire… until something else follows in quick succession, “Or nothing, really, the world still tastes like ash and you’ll need to get to people faster. Combats the existential guilt of all that couldn’t be saved—Your chest measurements still the same?”  
  


* * *

  
Morgan is born in the early hours of the morning—with sunlight streaming through the windows of their lake house home and Pepper’s cheeks flushed with joy. Tony has never looked more in love than he has been at that moment; his eyes are teary with unbridled happiness and Steve feels his entire heart go to him.

  
He shouldn’t endanger this. But Pepper shoots him a fatigued look even before he retreats like a ‘don’t you dare’, motioning for Tony to hand him the little cotton bundle. Meek-eyed little Morgan takes the initiative to squeeze his finger in an iron grip while Happy, Nebula and Rocket debate over naming rights that they won’t have. Natasha looks just a tad whimsical, but it takes just a bit of initiation for all of them to bask in the moment. It’s a win they've all been needing.  
  


* * *

  
The next five years pass by quietly. But for someone who’s been stuck between the limbo of past and present since escaping the ice, there’s no time to mourn for what might be lost, and all the more reason to delve into what they can do in the situation at the best they can.

  
Should be, could be, maybe. Natasha toasts a sandwich to the irony of it all with him because it’s not supposed to make sense.

* * *

  
And then they find a reason to push, though, by some stroke of misfortune or another, it’s the kind of life-changing risk nobody would be comfortable taking.

  
“He’s scared.”

  
“He’s not wrong to be.”

  
As they arrange a meeting with Bruce—Professor Banner these days in the entertainment industry where he encourages the younger generation to believe in possibility again through science—he feels eyes on his neck even that would eventually consolidate his decision to turn in reconsideration.

  
“… Lunch in the meantime couldn’t hurt.”

  
Natasha, weary-eyed in her burdens almost scrunches her brows, but only laughs drily when she finds no sarcasm in him. “Why not? Might as well learn how people get a life these days.”

  
The corners of both their lips turn up at the little reference, and Scott tails after them. “Hey, what—really? He just rejected us like it was senior prom!!! Guys!’’

  
Tony straightens his expression at the door like he wasn’t smiling from the window, and Morgan has enough to say about how Aunt Natasha was cooler than the rest to keep business off the table.  
  


* * *

  
  
Scott eats his hangriness away, and Tony looks pensive in thought until Steve catches his eye. “You’re not staring me into submission here, cap, the world’s moved on from the oceanic blue eyes trope.”

  
“Didn’t plan to, Tony. You just look like you have a lot on your mind.”

  
“Yeah, well.” A harsh little punctuation of a laugh, straight from the chest. The kind Tony tends to do when he’s just… not sure. “Anyone with sense would, and I’ve had the time to think it over recently.’’ Steve doesn’t miss the minute shift of doe-brown eyes to the side, where a photo frame is neatly placed behind plates in memory of the kid from Queens. Tony’s eyes tended to say more than he deigned to himself, and there was no mistaking that the agony went beyond _recent_ ; the haunted little smile that followed only confirms it.

  
“Just… picture this for me. One minute a witch doctor makes sure I hear it loud and clear that he was going to feed us to the sharks if it meant saving the world, that he wasn’t going to excuse my _softness_ —” He mumbles something about the inaccuracy of the accusation, or just the irregularity of it. “Then he gives away the stone. Just like that, Rogers, well-coiffed hair and all—saying it was the only way. What was I supposed to make of it for five years?”

  
Possibilities run unbridled and there were no immediate answers as their hands welcome the rush of tap water, though it was important that it was expressed at all; something that couldn’t have been told over emails or Skype calls when they talked about Morgan, rehabilitation projects and life after everything, one that Steve pretends to have at this point.

  
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t mention how a world without Tony Stark would be a duller, more fragile place, knows that it has demanded too much of the Red Avenger as it is. “But that’s why we’re here. You don’t have to shoulder it all on your own.”

  
Eventually, they let the moment settle and burn between them at the sink while the people behind them chatters away, elbows brushed against each other in shared reassurance while the keener audiences stay observant in silence.

  
“Do adults always smoulder at each other like that, Auntie Nat?”

  
“Only when they’re men with unresolved issues and thick skulls, sweetie. I think I owe your mother money.”

  
Both women chink their wine glasses in the name of the game. Morgan mirrors this with her Sailor Moon mug and receives kisses from both of them amidst warm laughter.

  
“And where did you even learn the word _smoulder_?’’  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The shield feels right again, when Tony’s the one handing it to him.

  
“I hate to say I told you so, because we’ve _got_ to switch it up a bit.” He leans against the car with a debonair wave of hand, pretty enough for vogue and knowing it when he removes those sunglasses to reveal long-lashed brown eyes, with hints of starlight that suck you in, “So tell me something I don’t know before I swoop in to save the day. Give it a shot.”

  
He’s here with them again in spite of everything. There’s a trace of bitter sweetness to that.

  
“You’d look pretty when you cry.”

  
Tony’s smugness stops mid-rebuttal. “Excuse me?”

  
“Out of joy I mean.”

  
“Rogers, is that a threat, because _what_.’’

  
“It’s nothing _odd_ , Tony, I just—”

  
He’s halfway through with his sentence when he feels the shield pressed to his own chest. Tony’s hands had been insistent, and at that he willingly collides into the sleek black car behind him, enraptured by the closing distance between them.

 

“You’re a menace, you know that?’’ So close, Steve wants to feel the nape of Tony’s neck with his lips and taste the sweat on his skin, manages to offer a lopsided smile.

  
“Only with the ones I like.”  
  
  
“Nice try, you can either swipe right on my old Tinder profile and wait for a response or ask Pepper.”

  
“I already did though.”

  
“Shut up. Which one?”

  
“Both.’’

  
Apparently, dating profiles of Steve Rogers with pictures of him in bomber jackets, hair kissed by sunlight, and Richard Silken-eque poetry sent through DMs was unrealistic in 2012.  
  
  


* * *

 

He thinks they almost kissed just a day before the timeline-jump was supposed to commence, when his thumbs brush against Tony’s cheekbones in slow-burning intimacy as he watches him, just _watches_ him as the light draws low in the compound to shroud them from the world for once.

  
He’s beautiful and Steve’s silent reverence must’ve shown for Tony to squint with humour like that. “Going to slow-burn it for another decade, are we?”

  
  
“Hell no. Just…” When he finds the word, it’s not without its melancholies. “Catching up.’’ Sentiments like ‘for all the times he could’ve spent doing this’ goes unsaid, and he’s not about to elaborate until he feels fingers on his in gentle insistence. “You know what, Rogers? For all your rousing little speeches that could convert satanists, you do surprisingly bad at expressions of _personal_ woe. Which is probably attributed to—“

  
“Era-specific values.” They finish together, and Tony stifles a laugh, “Right. I can see why if the history checks out, so hear out my theory: you’ve spent a good chunk of your yesteryear being seen as a walking tumour that you’re practically allergic to vulnerability. Did you suck up the common cold with pressed ginger juice and call it a day?’’

  
“Pot calling the kettle black there, Tony, you’ve got more Red Bull and coffee in your veins than blood.”

  
“Message received and left on seen, I’m not done.” There’s more coaxing of fingers this time so that they intertwined, and Tony presses it against Steve’s chest as a sign for him to be patient with him, “Point being: you say ‘catch-up’ like you’re in some reality TV marathon that spans an entire lifetime back—even now it feels like you’re not really here even when you try your damnedest to be. What else are you catching up on?”

  
“I know, I know.” He feels a tiredness settle behind his eyes already, free fingers framing the edge of Tony’s face just to be grounded by the warmth of being able to touch him like this, “And I want to be here. For you, _with_ you.’’ So many nights he’s concluded that it would have been nice to just _be_ , to immerse in the depth of Tony’s beautiful eyes focused on him, crinkled at the edges with mirth. “But the more I told myself I _was_ moving on… some past regret manifested itself in one way or another, and I tried to hold onto what little there was only to fail.”

  
Speaking with his entire heart that’s so intertwined with the soldier persona that demanded pestilence, that demanded he did not waver in the face of everything momentous or small; lending a patient ear to the woes of society was easier than acknowledging your own. “Should’ve realized long before that the war followed the man.’’ Even now he lacks the words to verbalise what it’s like to hurt like this, when your thresholds of pain have long since been altered by your history of chronic illnesses, the serum, and then the ice.

  
“… I didn’t want to be unfair to you, but I was anyway. ‘I’m sorry’ feels lazy.”

  
Tony watches him carefully, unreadable. “Seems you’re being more unfair to yourself, Cap, and I’m saying this as someone who’s in full agreement that you messed up a thing or two.”

  
“Just two?”

  
“And for all the times I was right, but I’m saving you the embarrassment. The entire team’s guilt complex is unbearable as it is.” Steve finds it in him to chuckle at that, his protest evident by the way his brows are creased even as their bodies collide, greedily seizing all the shared warmth that they have denied themselves throughout the years. Eventually, their foreheads find each other's, and it is… sweet, easy, safe.

  
“I’m going to work on it, promise. Didn’t plan to stew in guilt forever, and don’t plan to completely charge into infinity and beyond without thinking twice, either.”

  
“Nice balance. Can’t go being defined by our losses forever, can we? Gotta fight for this life, we haven’t done enough in it to be star-crossed so soon.”

  
“Fight for this life.” He muses with a pleased smile, effortlessly pulling the other’s weight to him so Tony lays snug against him. “Touch up a thing or two and we can co-write it on the new Avengers memorandum. Think it’ll sell?”

  
“I know we essentially co-lead the Avengers without notable hierarchies, but this is another instance where you’re taking credit just by looking pretty, buff and blonde.” It’s said with a humored squint and pinch to Steve’s skin, until Tony lapses into the comfort of steady shoulders as they watch the holographic stars above. “… But just so we’re clear, I definitely plucked a thing or two from the Captain America subreddits to help with the psychoanalysis. Remember to thank Sam when we get him back, because he is one hell of a virtual defender for your honor.’’  
  
  


* * *

   
  


“Be careful. Look out for each other.”

  
It’s not like he’s one to play into personal biases too obviously, but his eyes seek out someone else’s in particular and he doesn’t try to silence the knowing snorts that come from Natasha. A little promise to hold onto those words, spurred by the honeymoon touch of it all that blooms in his chest even as they prepare for the worst.

  
“This is the fight of our lives, and we’re going to win.”

  
Tony’s smile is partially disbelieving, but oh-so-fond.  
  
  


* * *

 

He doesn’t expect to break at the sight of her.

  
Lips a ruby red and eyes steady as the day he met her, something in him _shatters_ into irreparable little pieces; breathing feels like choking on the glass-shards of words he never got to say when it mattered, visceral and gruesome in the way he feels it in his blood, to the bone, everywhere without the serum’s effect stepping in.

  
It takes him a minute to realize it’s not a bad thing to feel the full extent of his hurt like this. Not phantom pain wisps from days long gone, not some hyper-realistic memory constructed by the enhanced parts of his brain, nothing secondary, it’s all real. He hurts and he bleeds without the need to repress the helplessness of it all… but he’s also seen the future where the both of them turn out okay in spite of almost-s.

  
Steve’s blinks away the tears from his vision in the privacy of Peggy’s office when he whispers the last of his love, turns down the photo-frame of himself on her desk and wishes her the happiness he knows she will have.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It shouldn’t have been Natasha; it shouldn't have happened at all.

  
"See now, you’re very _mortal_ . Mm-kay? We’re talking about _space magic_ .” Thor is insisting on this through gritted teeth, another one of the team sick of loss and all the helplessness that came with it. “There’s gotta be something we can do, and to confine our chances to the words of some _floating man_ —“

  
"With a red face, yeah—Listen, here’s an idea, why don’t _you_ go talk to him?”

  
“Maybe we will.” They look to Steve, and he doesn’t bother hiding stormy eyes still brimming with tears anymore; but what’s there isn’t just _grief_ , it’s the certainty he’s never had as to how he fits into the present with all of them. “When we said ‘whatever it takes’, it was more than just empty platitudes.”

  
He rises, and extends a hand towards the collective group that remains. “We’ll fight for her as hard as she’s fought for all of us until there’s absolutely nothing we can do—now, we go and bring everyone back so we can get to her too.”

  
"Gotta fight for this life,” Tony supplies, misty-eyed but supportive with this development when his fingers are the first to join Steve’s. “You heard the captain; whatever it takes.”

  
Thor slaps an eager hand in, and maybe that’s what stirs Bruce from his misery when the Nordic god gives his nod in reassurance—he joins the fray too, and they wait on Clint, who’s still shakily breathing in consideration—

“Get in here already, you look like some mom’s bastard boyfriend and I can’t take your hesitation seriously.”

  
The final hand that grips onto all their joined ones is just a little less aggrieved and most definitely annoyed.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Thor barely has the time to help a wounded Bruce to his feet when the missiles came. Vibranium is flimsy in the face of Thanos’ Deux-ex-Machina powered blade, but the three Avengers worked with a ferocious synergy that stemmed from years of build-up this Titan did not have in his arrogance.

  
When they were battered into a standstill however, with Thanos weaponizing Thor’s own wield on Stormbreaker through sheer physical strength so that it cuts into armour and flesh—Mjolnir just looked like a hammer with enough knockback power to hurt where it counts.

  
They’ve all had their philosophical debates of what constituted as ‘’worthy’’ a few years back in the midst of intoxicated laughter. Physics, linguistic loopholes that Odin had relied on when he inscribed the enchantment, Asgardian values—

  
Even now, Steve doesn’t doubt that any of them could’ve lifted it when they least expect to, that the hammer might’ve just subscribed to its own reformed values of what it means to be worthy, outgrowing its own enchanter as it mirrors Thor’s personal growth. Maybe Steve has grown into a fuller version of himself to an extent to not be weighed down by his fear, guilt and the expectations of who he’s supposed to do and be.

  
Maybe all it takes is to fight fiercely and _be_.

  
The sound of divine rock crashing into Thanos’ skull is made better by how Thor hoots like an overexcited golden retriever.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The winds of change were felt in full when the portals swirled open—Sam soars high into the overhead skies, basked in the gold of renewed hope as people, communities and armies stepped forward into joined preparation, nodding their unanimous assent to whatever that’ll come next. Tony blasts into the air in a projectile-swirl, joining Pepper in flight while the sound of the man’s awed little laugh booms in Steve’s ears like a summersweet song.

  
Doctor Strange watches Tony a little too closely throughout the span of everything. Steve isn’t jealous, he’s just aware since their conversation at the lakehouse.

  
This is it, the beginning of the end.  
  
  


* * *

 

Until it almost looks like it’s not meant to be.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Steve sees it from miles away just when the rush of victory could be near at hand. Carol Danvers steels herself against Thanos like the unwavering force that bows to no tyranny, matching blow for blow until the Titan is forced into drastic measures with the power stone.

  
Everything slows like a montage, his habit of seeking Tony’s eyes helping him follow its gaze to where Doctor Strange lifts one shaky finger.

  
One way.

  
The only way.

  
No.

 

* * *

 

…. … ….

 

* * *

 

… …

 

* * *

 

…

 

* * *

 

** Did you become every bit the man I believed you could be, Stark?  **

**“... Well. I have a family now." There's a minute pause. "More than one, actually, so that’s at least two levels up from a man with everything but nothing.” He doesn’t have it in him to reconcile leaving everything behind; he can’t even bring himself to be reminded he’d do it again, because he’s still left remembering the costs. “They’re gonna be okay. But I gotta say--really wished it turned out some other way.”**

** Maybe there is.  **

** Because it’s not your time yet.  **

 

* * *

   
  


Tony could’ve sworn he saw the light of everything at its end when he snapped his fingers, and the feeling of seeing stars, torn at the seams and beyond only to be hauled back into the gritty present makes his insides flip, “I don’t feel so good. Though this was supposed to be immediate so I don’t have to start hesitating--”  
 

‘’Because it’s not your time.”

Tony blinks the bleariness from his eyes and sees blue, close and personal, all up in his personal space. Steve’s fingers grip tightly onto his, effectively preventing the gesture that would’ve finished the job. The horror of the implications was quick to dawn on him, sending Tony’s nerves into a gut wrenching _mess_ when he struggles. “Let me go, Steve, he’s already _said_ 14 million and only _one_ where we win--”  
 

“One man’s foresight into the future is subject to deviation and confirmation bias. Maybe Doctor Strange just wasn’t being all that scientific.”  
 

Green and charred from the previous attempt, a gentle giant’s touch that helps make sure no one wavers in the face of what’s ahead.

  
“Stop stealing my thunder, Stark, this is something that’ll go down in all of history.”

  
He feels the jolt and zap on skin, clasped surely onto the back of their fingers when Thor joins in, the roar of thunder at their beck and call.

  
“Yeah, come to think of it? 14 million with just one win sounds as believable as Vormir. Basically confirmed with Cap that it was some Nazi overlord who probably lied one way or another like a sadistic Republican, can you believe that piece of shit?”

  
The snark’s back in full speed; Clint adjusts the shared grip just a bit, helps with the aim he’s so proud of.

  
"The punk’s rubbed onto you too much.”  
  
  
“Got your six too, Stark.”

  
“Mr. Stark!”

  
"Enough of the heroic bullshit, Tony.”  
  
  
"You’re going home today.” Pepper’s words are final as it were, and Tony could feel his heart swell like a manic bomb at the collective presence gathering around him.

  
The crash of ocean waves had long since been directed towards a portal connected to the faraway deserts for Doctor Strange to sigh as Thanos is restricted thaumaturgically, his gaze finding Tony’s again and he manages to flatten his expression, “Fine. In retrospect, 14 million futures with just one win does sound like bad writing.”

  
Steve holds his Tony’s gaze until he doesn’t, giving one final squeeze in reassurance while he alters the way his fingers were positioned: they’re no longer curled in readiness of a snap--instead, lunging out in a familiar signature move as a flare gathers in his palm, the soul stone flaring brighter than the rest in the strangest resonance that they all feel together.

  
“This is the one where we win together, then.”  
  
  
The world is engulfed in a light that will shape the eons ahead of them.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“So let me get this straight--Well, as straight as this entire homoerotic bullshit can be.” They’re standing at the pier by their lakeside home, and Tony’s squinting into the horizon with such focus that Steve can’t help but smile. “Everything changed by a hair because you didn’t bother hiding how you’re biased and kept your eyes on me throughout.”

 

“Yes sir, you were and still are quite the sight.” He snakes an arm around his beloved, grins cheekily when Tony slaps his hand in faux-protest. “That and I knew about Strange enough to piece it all together. We all worked well enough together as a team in earnest to make room so I could cover the distance; the consistent updates with the suit definitely did wonders with getting to things in time, too.”

  
“Fascinating.” Tony’s genuinely awed, his relief and happiness infectious when Steve holds him close against his chest. “All that because we were together.”  
  
  
“And love each other.” It’s matter-of-fact, and there’s no reason for any of them to be shocked at this point when they’ve slow-burned their way into a deserved ending like this. Tony’s eyes sparkle with adoration that creases at the sides of his eyes when he closes the distance between their lips, “Shut up. I love you too.”  
  
  


* * *

  **star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

thwarted or opposed by the stars; ill-fated: _star-crossed lovers._

* * *

  **star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

thwarted or opposed by the stars; ill-fated 

* * *

  **star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

thwarted or opposed by the stars

* * *

  **star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]SHOW IPA

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

 

* * *

  **star-crossed**

[ **stahr** -krawst, -krost ]SHOW IPA

EXAMPLES|WORD ORIGIN

[adjective]

  ~~[subject to further redefinition:~~  
  
**‘’but in this world and the next, why can’t this word be redefined in the sense that I would fight to cross the sea of stars and beyond to get to you?’’]**

**  
-S. G. R.**

* * *

 End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading up to this point, and I hope the experience was enjoyable! I care deeply about Steve Roger's and Tony Stark's relationship dynamic, and Endgame has definitely frustrated me enough that I went ''fuck it'' and got to whatever we have here. It started out with fix-it fluff that centered around Stony, but as I progressed, it didn't feel like a fic that mitigated what I felt was the most tragic aspect with them. It dawned on me that just having Steve be regretful without verbalizing all the difficulties involving it felt like a disservice to both of them in the process, and I hope I managed to make the flow of introspection work in the sense that they both grew into their happy ending.
> 
> Also, I know it's not news but Steve Roger's canonical colorblindness prior to the super soldier serum is something I hold dear to heart, which is why there are repeated mentions of ''sepia'' that encompass TFA's cinematic experience, and how Tony is the vivid red that makes the world feel more alive. There might be a one-shot with that colour theme soon!


End file.
